


He Who is Like God

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alley Sex, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Will Graham, Facials, Injury Recovery, Jealous Will Graham, Jealousy, Knifeplay, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Will Graham, Post-Canon, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25521352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: After the fall, Hannibal and Will have settled in Spain. Will expected their relationship to progress to a physical intimacy, but Hannibal hasn't seemed interested in it. Will tells himself he's okay with that, except Hannibal keeps sneaking out at night and Will can't - won't - tolerate the thought of him being with someone else. Hannibal belongs to him, and Will is going to make sure he knows that, through any means necessary.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 68
Kudos: 577





	He Who is Like God

**Author's Note:**

  * For [everybreathagift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybreathagift/gifts).



> Thank you so much to @everybreathagift for the fantastic prompt! I loved writing this, possessive Will makes me happy inside :D 
> 
> Prompt requested:  
> Violently possessive Will.  
> Hannibal assuming Will doesn't want a relationship with him post-fall.  
> Will aggressively losing his shit when he sees Hannibal with someone else and reminding him who he belongs to.  
> Will knowing his possessive thoughts are fucked up but both of them loving it anyway.

Will sits, and stares, nursing whiskey that is closer to engine oil, that tastes bitter and slick and floods his mouth with an afterburn that would only take a single flint strike of a word to catch. He sits and his eyes linger on the empty space in the bottom of the hallway closet.

Hannibal's shoes are normally there. They sit, tucked up right against Will's, below their coats. They have two coats each – one thicker, winter-warm. Will's second is a windbreaker he takes for quick trips with the dogs. Hannibal's second coat is more like a thick blazer for nights on the town.

That is the one that's missing. His fancy shoes, his nice coat gone, the lingering scent of hair gel and cologne in the air. It's not difficult to put two and two together.

Will's upper lip twitches and he tosses the whiskey back and narrowly, _narrowly,_ resists the urge to throw it into the hearth and watch the shards scatter around. He does it for the sake of the dogs' paws. They don't know any better. They don't deserve to bear the brunt of Will's anger.

If they didn't have them, though. If Will hadn't accepted the first, what felt like a peace offering, and then the second he found on the side of the road, and the third that followed him home from the side of the river where the scent of fish had attracted her….

If they didn't live with them, now, by the grace of Will's compassion and Hannibal's indulgence, there would be glass on the floor. There would be nails sealing the windows and doors shut. Will would hide Hannibal's shoes and make him fucking _crawl_.

He hates these thoughts. He hates how strong and genuine and delicious they are. He hates the empty space where Hannibal's shoes and coat should be.

He pushes himself to his feet and sets the glass down on the mantelpiece as he leaves the living room. Their house, a small detached building somewhere in Spain, has cool walls and spacious rooms, and tile on the floor, and windows perfectly placed to create a cross breeze when it gets warm and they are open.

He seals every one shut. He puts the dogs in the yard, knowing from the cloudless sky and the gentle breeze that it will not be a bad night. There's a kennel along the back wall. Hannibal paid for the contractors without informing Will. Before they even had dogs.

 _Presumptuous, Doctor Lecter_ , Will had murmured, but with a smile so wide it hurt his scarred cheek.

And Hannibal, lashes low, purring like a pleased cat, had put a hand to his shoulder and squeezed it gently and that's all they said on the matter. Such as it has been – Will doesn't know what happened. They move around each other like ships pointing their magnets in the wrong direction. Entranced by similarities but ultimately repelled when they get too close.

Will wouldn't reject Hannibal, of course he wouldn't. Not after everything. He kissed a couple men in college, and has only fucked and dated women, but that's more a result of growing up with a Southern father and then being a cop where being obvious about that kind of shit could get you kicked out or killed.

And it's -. Well, it's _Hannibal_. If he was a man or a woman or both or neither, Will doesn't think he would care. He can figure out the logistics of pretty much any body with enough trial and error and patience. And Hannibal was a fucking doctor so it's not like he's not going to know the basics of human anatomy and where all the sensitive spots are.

And Hannibal loves him. He's _in love_ with Will. All that 'daily stab of hunger' crap wasn't just Bedelia talking shit. Will can feel it, has felt it. It's in the air when Hannibal cooks, in the slight hesitance outside of Will's bedroom door when Hannibal goes to bed late or wakes up early. It's in Hannibal's eyes, dark and shining and so _hungry_ that Will always, always, wants to eat afterwards. Hannibal is magnetic and Will is metal and molten and, God damn it -.

There's only one reason Hannibal's shoes and nice coat would be missing. It's been months since the fall and feels like it's been a lifetime, and Hannibal hasn't had a kind touch for three fucking years. Objectively, Will understands all of this.

But objectivity goes down like gasoline, meets the open flame of anger, and ignites.

He grabs his windbreaker, not feeling the cold at all, and slides his feet into his shoes. He pulls the halves of his coat around himself and yanks the zipper up so hard the tab almost snaps off. When he leaves the house, the door slams loud enough to echo all the way to the sidewalk.

Hannibal sourced them a car. It's large enough to fit a body in the trunk, dull-colored and serviceable. It's slightly too large for the narrow Spanish streets but it's reliable and will get him where he needs to go. The fact that Hannibal didn't take it with him, that he was _picked up_ or _met someone_ for his little rendezvous blinds Will with vengeful anger.

He _would._ Of course he fucking would. But there's too much on the line and Will has always been much better at reacting to Hannibal than anticipating him. He can justify anything, which means anything is possible, and it's easier to wait for the wildcat to lunge or slink away before doing anything stupid to incite a reaction.

So he's been waiting. Waiting and watching and sitting and sighing while, within him, bramble vines twist around and around and around. They're going to choke him if he's not careful, and he already feels like he's drowning, like they're back in the ocean all over again.

He doesn't know what he's going to do when he finds Hannibal. The town is small and there are two, maybe three places he could see Hannibal deigning to go. He might just be out, drinking on his own, wanting to get away from Will's constant sourness and all the dog hair. He might be trying to -.

Will doesn't let himself finish the sentence. The air already has a haze of red and his knuckles are white.

The first bar he tries is more like a winery than a bar, with events listed on the chalkboard outside boasting wine tasting events and tours of the vineyards and cellars. Will slides in and feels like poison put into the veins of a living creature.

The inside of the building is cool and dark, lit only by dim orange lights held in ornaments that look like cages, making all the shadows sharper. The floor is stone and yet Will's feet make no sound as he slinks in like the intruder he is and seeks out his prey.

The hostess, for there is one, either doesn't notice him or has enough instinct in her that she doesn't try to catch his attention. Will slips by, and enters the large room behind the entrance. One side of the room has a long broad bar of dark wood, light shining off the hundreds of bottles on display and for sale. There are booths and tables, the high kind where it's just as easy to stand as to sit on the tall stools.

His eyes narrow on a familiar figure. Hannibal is turned away from him, but Will would know him blind, in the dark. With nothing but his hands. How many times, after all, had he eased muscle relaxant into those shoulders, since Hannibal took the brunt of the fall and dislocated pretty much every joint it's possible to dislocate in his shoulder, and Will had to help with self-taught physical therapy, and how many times had he had Hannibal bare-chested on a bed while Will changed his bandages or his colostomy bag while he healed. How many times had he trimmed Hannibal's hair because he wasn't able to do it himself, while it grew out of being shorn prison-short?

It's longer, now, just barely lipping at the top of his collar. He's not alone.

Will's upper lip twitches back at the sight of another man, leaning on the tall table Hannibal is at. They both have glasses of wine, the other man is dressed just as finely, though he's flashier than Will's tastes. The golden watch on his wrist certainly seems like the real thing. And he's laughing, and smiling, and chattering at Hannibal happily while Hannibal sips his wine.

Will's fingers curl, and fidget. He looks to one side, where a set of meals have been abandoned but not cleared away. There's a steak knife.

It's crude, and reckless, but again, Will is much better at reacting than anything else. Foresight and planning are the luxuries of hunters, not fisherman. His skills, his goals, are to simply outlast and lay low.

He slinks over to the table and pulls the steak knife from the plate, wiping it on one of the red cloth napkins. He takes the second napkin and wraps the knife in it, so the glint of metal doesn't alarm anyone, and tucks it into the inner pocket of his windbreaker.

Normally, he uses the pockets for dog treats and poop bags. The thought brings a smile to his face that is in no way happy or kind, and feels more like a snarl. He puts himself in the shadows by the bar and watches Hannibal with his new _friend_.

He sits, and stares. He watches the man gravitate closer. Watches him lean in and put a hand on Hannibal's hip, that fucking golden watch shining in the low light. Watches his hand slide up and flatten on Hannibal's side, the side that Will stitched back together piece by fucking piece.

His vision is no longer red. Now it's dark, dark, and the bramble vines are choking him to death.

Hannibal says something, too far away for Will to hear. The man nods, and pats his side, and makes a gesture towards the door by the hostess station. Will follows his gaze – the bathrooms. Every inch of him goes tense. God, if they're about to go fuck in the _fucking bathrooms_ -.

They don't. At least, when Hannibal's companion leaves, he doesn't follow. Will is up and after him like a bullet from a gun, and once they're inside the bathrooms he waits just long enough to check that they're alone.

He slides the deadbolt closed and narrows his eyes at the closed stall door. The bathroom is sleek and elegant, all black glittering tile and large mirrors framed with golden lights. It's the kind of setup where blood won't immediately be noticeable, unless someone steps in it. Without hesitation, he kicks the stall door open with a single solid hit, because he was a cop and he knows how to break down a fucking door.

The man's yell of alarm is silenced as Will advances on him, wraps his hand beneath the fancy knot of his silky tie, and yanks him upright. His pants are around his ankles and he stumbles, straight into Will's knife.

Will smiles. It's not happy, but it is definitely satisfied.

He lets the man's weight lean against him, tilts his chin up, cups the nape of his neck and draws the knife back, and stabs again. He grunts, flexing his jaw. His shoulder hurts where the man is pressing against it. He draws back and stabs again. Red, hot blood drips down his wrist and it feels like when he jerks off into his own hand, thick and dribbling and altogether not as satisfying as the real thing.

He shoves the man back, looks at his blank staring eyes, his bulging neck where Will tugged the tie so tight it bruised him. His shirt, torn and barely able to contain the ground meat Will made of his stomach.

He reaches forward, and carefully unlatches the gold watch, and slides it into his pocket.

"Nothing personal," he says. He doesn't know if the man can understand English, or even if he's capable of hearing anything that close to death. Will doesn't give a shit.

He rinses his hands and dries them on the red cloth napkin. He can't do anything about the bloodstain on his clothes, but they're dark enough that the low light outside will hide it. His eyes narrow, and a snarl both animal and monstrous rumbles in his chest.

His head snaps to one side, and his fingers curl tight.

Will unlatches the door and slides out like a shadow. He prowls to where Hannibal is, still standing and sipping like nothing is amiss. Hannibal tilts his head a fraction of a second before Will is at his shoulder, one hand touching the place that other man touched, at his side, over his bullet wound.

Hannibal's nostrils flare as he breathes in, and his eyes darken in understanding. His jaw clenches when Will meets his eyes, and then every inch of him goes stiff as Will touches the tip of his bloody knife under Hannibal's arm. Beneath his jacket, so he can feel how warm and wet it is.

Will tilts his head. "Outside," he says, smile lopsided.

Hannibal's lips purse, displeasure evident as he finishes his wine, and lets Will herd him out the restaurant. Will leads him to the dark alleyway beside it and shoves Hannibal into the black.

"Will," Hannibal says, with warning and a low rumble, like he has _any_ control over this situation. He's lucky Will didn't beat him black and blue in the middle of the fucking bar.

Will feels wild. Knowing that other man touched Hannibal, knowing he was close enough to kiss, knowing Hannibal is going out and _meeting people_ and smiling at them and -. Will shakes his head and shoves Hannibal back when Hannibal reaches for him, and chases, until Hannibal's shoulders hit the rough stone wall and Will has his knife to Hannibal's throat.

"Don't," he whispers in warning. "Don't say a fucking word."

Of course Hannibal doesn't have the ability to just be silent. The anger is growing, and Will is spitting fire. He can't remember the last time he was this full of pure rage. Not even the dragon felt like this. "Am I correct in guessing that's Javier's blood?" Hannibal asks.

Will bares his teeth in a smile, and shows Hannibal the watch. "You tell me."

Hannibal frowns at him. This far into the alleyway there's a small patch of light that doesn't reach them, but highlights the sharp structure of his face. They've been eating leanly, when they can eat at all, and it shows in how thin Hannibal looks. Skeletal, almost, like the creature from Will's dreams. Maybe it's fitting, this time, that Hannibal looks like the monster, since Will is acting like one.

"Will." He hates that tone of voice, like he's a child that's about to be scolded; he got that enough from Jack, and his father. He snarls and presses the knife in warning against Hannibal's throat. He wants to cut him open. He wants to hollow Hannibal to his heart, tear out his larynx so that his name is the last thing Hannibal ever says. He wants to carve his mark into Hannibal's bones, 'PROPERTY OF' in undeniable big block letters.

"Do you get pleasure out of taunting me?" Will hisses before he can say anything else. Hannibal's eyes flash, and his head tilts. He's aggravatingly disinterested in the knife at his throat. "Did you think I was going to watch someone put their fucking hands on you and not have anything to say about it?"

"I was under the impression that I was no longer a prisoner," Hannibal replies. Will wants to laugh. He wants to snarl. He ends up baring his teeth and swallowing both sounds. "You have had ample time and opportunity to make any claim on me evident -."

"That goes both ways," Will snaps. "But I'm not going to sit by while you go around acting like a whore -."

He's almost expecting the slap. But it stings, and it's powerful, and he stumbles back, back of his knife-wielding hand pressed to his cheek as the burn starts. He can taste blood in his mouth and feels the inside of his cheek throb tenderly, the knife wound not quite healed enough to tolerate additional injury without complaint.

He works his jaw loose and glares at Hannibal, his chest heaving as he fights every urge in him to lunge back, to punch and stab and bite. _Fuck_ , he could tear Hannibal apart. That slap was a spark on gasoline. He's burning from the inside out.

"Feel better?" he snarls.

"Do you?" Hannibal replies, eyes narrowed and chin lifted in challenge. There's a line of blood along his neck. It's not his. Will lets his hand drop and licks at the corner of his mouth, tasting. Tasting his own, and that man's, mixing, mingling like water in whiskey.

"No," he admits.

"I'm free to do what I like, with whomever I like," Hannibal says. Fuck, does he have no self-preservation instinct? Maybe Will should have brought a gun. He feels no better than a beast, snarling at something threatening his territory and home. Hackles raised and teeth bared, he paces a step, towards Hannibal, and sees him tense. "If you demand my affection, Will, perhaps you should have been more obvious about wanting it."

"Obvious?" Will can't help it; the hard laugh he was keeping back escapes. "How could I have been more obvious? When I killed the dragon with you? When I ran away with you? When I nursed you back to health and -?"

Hannibal's head tilts, eyes gleaming with intrigue. He looks Will up and down in the shadows, like he has discovered a brand-new creature. Understanding, then, dawns in him. His shoulders lower a fraction. "…Did you want it?" he asks. Will doesn't know how to reconcile the sudden vulnerability in his voice.

"Of course I did," he replies. "I do. Jesus Christ, Hannibal, how can you know me so well and not know that?"

"Sexual desire is not the same as intimacy, Will," Hannibal says, quietly. "I didn't want to presume."

Will grits his teeth, knuckles white around the handle of the knife. For the life of him, he doesn't know if he wants to drop it or put it back to Hannibal's throat. "You're _mine_ ," he snarls. Hannibal blinks, at that, lips twitching into a smile. He steps forward, closing the distance. Will lifts his chin because it's not smart to break eye contact with a predator like Hannibal. "You've been mine since the moment we met."

"Have I?" Hannibal echoes, soft with amusement. It makes the dying flames rage again.

Will snarls and shoves at him until his back hits the wall again, and puts his bloody hand in Hannibal's hair, yanking it so harshly Hannibal stumbles. Will kicks at his knee, where he knows Hannibal is still weak, and sends Hannibal to his knees. Good, this is where he should be. Will is an altar, he is God, and Hannibal owes him his life and love and worship.

"If I had my way," Will snarls, grabbing Hannibal's jaw in a bruising grip and forcing his head up, "you'd never leave the house. You'd crave me, every second of every day, and beg me to touch you. I'd put glass on the floor so you couldn't leave, and seal the windows and doors."

The force of these admissions are not new. They are not revelations in and of themselves. But giving them life, voicing them out loud, feels awful and terrible and perfectly right. "You would exist only for me. You brought what I am into the light and you're not allowed to hide from it, now."

Hannibal's gaze is unwavering. Even on his knees he looks powerful and strong. "Does that repulse you?" Will asks. He needs to know, more than he needs to breathe. His hand tightens on Hannibal's jaw and in his hair, pulling hard enough that Hannibal winces – just a single show of weakness, and it nourishes Will like water in a garden. Vines and brambles grow and choke him, choke him. "I'll kill anyone who looks at you. Anyone who thinks your name or dares to breathe in your direction. You're _mine_ , Hannibal, your existence belongs to me."

Hannibal smiles, then, warmly. The same way he did on the cliffs when there was so much blood between them, and victory, and endless promise stretching out like a sunrise. "Will," he purrs, lashes going low. "You only needed to ask."

Somehow, that just makes it worse. Will snarls at him. "I shouldn't _have_ to ask," he hisses, and lets go of Hannibal's jaw. He needs to -. He needs to finish this, somehow. The car is too far away, their house as impossible to reach as Olympus, and their union needs to be sealed with something _intimate._

Hannibal's smile doesn't falter, even as Will fumbles at the button and zip of his dark slacks. They're stained with blood and he doesn't miss how Hannibal breathes in, eyes closing, a look of utter bliss taking over his face as Will shoves a hand underneath his clothes and pulls his cock out. He's not hard, he's too angry to have taken any pleasure except the kind animals feel when they hunt their next meal, but if Hannibal wants Will to _ask_ , Will is going to make him work for it. Will, as always, is reactionary at heart.

He wraps his hand in Hannibal's hair all the more tightly, knife still clutched so the dripping blood knots in the strands, and shoves his cock between Hannibal's parted lips. Hannibal takes him immediately, hands curling around the backs of Will's thighs. Will knows he's in pain – his knees and hip haven't quite recovered from the fall, and Will himself isn't in the best physical shape, but this isn't about that. That can come later.

He thinks, with a small laugh to himself, of what might have been different had Will done this to Hannibal in his kitchen, with a gun to his head instead. If Hannibal would look quite so delighted at being on his knees, if his cheeks would hollow and he would suck so eagerly.

He's skilled at this. Of course he is, Will thinks with another bitter snarl. He tips his head back and lets his eyes fall to half mast, watching as Hannibal takes him to the root and runs his tongue up and down Will's cock, as it starts to thicken and fill his mouth.

" _Fuck_ ," he says, the word escaping as a snarl. He kicks Hannibal's knee out and doesn't miss how he winces, trying to adjust to the position. But he pulls Will close to him and Will bows over his head, free forearm braced against the wall, forehead against it so he can watch. He slides his hand to the back of Hannibal's head and crushes his nose to Will's pelvis, bucking his hips, so that Hannibal chokes. The delicate muscles of his throat flex around Will's cockhead as he does so, and the thought of making Hannibal choke on him sends pleasure all the way to his toes.

"I'm not letting you leave my side again," he rasps, to the cold night air and to Hannibal's head, as he tightens his grip and pulls back, holding Hannibal still as he fucks his hardening cock back into his mouth. He can feel Hannibal's lips bruising, saliva slick in his mouth, so warm and wet on the inside. He feels fucking divine. Hellish and hot and monstrous and _God_ , Will doesn't know if this counts as an act of love but he doesn't know what else to call it.

Hannibal makes a low sound, and his nails tighten in Will's thighs. He looks up, just a brief flash of his eyes, but Will sees how ravenous he is, how much he wants this too. Will grins and smears his bloody hand across his monster's face, cupping his jaw and painting him red. Red is such a good color on him; it highlights the shades of maroon in his eyes and makes Will think of fire and brimstone.

He's hard, now, and leaking, and knows Hannibal is struggling to take all of him. Good. Will wants to rip out his throat and make it so that the only time Hannibal will ever speak again is inside the shared rooms of their mind palace. He will lock his monster away and only bring him out when Will deigns to – when he is hungry or desires this, carnal acts of violence and malice that they can call love.

Hannibal's cheeks hollow as he sucks harder, and Will shivers, lifting to his toes as he starts a rhythm, pushing as deep as he's able into Hannibal's spasming throat and only pulling back far enough that he can catch a slip of air. Hannibal's lashes flutter, he's making noises like he's drowning, noises Will knows all too well.

He feels like he's drowning, too. The fire has burned out, leaving smoke that clogs his lungs and fills his mouth. He groans and fucks in again, and again, until he knows Hannibal will be sore and empty without him. He wants that. He wants Hannibal to be so aware of the emptiness inside him, to want to feed that hunger. To beg Will for food and warmth and affection. He wants it so badly he's blind with it and it's awful, he knows it's awful to think these kinds of things of the man whom he loves so dearly, but he could not stop the thoughts any more than he can stop his actions now.

His stomach tenses and his heart skips a beat as he feels Hannibal's teeth catch on the flared head of his cock. He shows his teeth in warning. "Don't you dare bite me," he hisses. Hannibal's eyes meet his, bruised lips quirking in a coyote smile. He licks across the slit of Will's cock and Will moans, grunting, forcing himself deep again. A taunt, a tease, an ' _I fucking dare you_ '.

Hannibal takes it, as he has taken every other sliver of Will's affection. His touches and attentive checks of his wounds, his sarcastic remarks, his occasional smiles. He takes it all, and when Will feels like he's going to explode if something doesn't give, Will pulls back with a groan and wraps his bloody hand around his cock, stroking quickly.

Hannibal gasps, gazing up at him as though Will has razed mountains to the ground, brought him storms and saltwater, put the moon in the sky and taunted Hannibal with its distance. It's worship and praise, silent and all-consuming.

Will grits his teeth as he comes. The first spurt lands on Hannibal's swollen lips. He grabs Hannibal's throat and jerks his head up so that he can aim for his forehead, his red cheeks, his jaw. He coats the line of blood with his come, and remembers Javier bleeding across his hands. This is much more satisfying; the hot glaze of life on the meat laid across their altar, an offering of sin and satisfaction.

A promise: _You are mine, and I am the only one that can claim you_.

He finishes in Hannibal's mouth, because he knows Hannibal has always longed to taste him. Hannibal's lashes flutter again, and close, as he obediently sucks the last of Will from his softening cock. Will shivers when he's done, and pulls back, tucking himself away.

The light from the entrance of the alleyway shines on Hannibal's flesh. The monster can no longer hide in the darkness; Will has exposed him, and brought him into the heat of the blazing sun.

He crouches. Hannibal is hard, too, his erection an obvious thick line between his legs. Idly, Will wonders if he's been hard since the moment he smelled the blood on Will, or if it was when Will put a knife to his throat, or put him on his knees. He smiles, and presses his hand to it, knife still gripped loosely. Hannibal sighs, lips parted as he lets a single, rough noise escape him.

"If you try to leave," Will promises, "I'll take away your shoes and put glass on the floor. I'll break your fucking legs so you have no choice but to crawl. I'll take your hands, and your teeth and tongue, and blind you so you can't do anything without me."

The shiver that runs through Hannibal is powerful. Beneath his hand, Will feels his cock twitch in eager answer. He meets Will's eyes. There's no fear, nothing but insatiable and unending waves of emotion that is both horror and desire and awe. Such as a man should look upon his God.

"Don't leave me," Will says. The words come out more desperate than he intended, but he can't hide the genuine need behind them.

"Never," Hannibal rasps, fucked-out, throat sore. Hannibal's eyes drop to Will's mouth, and Will smiles, and leans in. Their lips meet, and Will knows Hannibal can taste blood, just as Will can taste his own come, and when Will licks behind his teeth and lets out a soft, pleased noise, and tightens his grip, he feels another powerful shiver run through Hannibal. His thighs tense, and pull together, and his hand flies down to grip Will's wrist, selfishly chasing the friction, the promise. The knife cuts through Hannibal's suit pants and draws blood as he comes with a throaty rumble, and a sated sigh.

Will tilts his head and kisses Hannibal's cheek, but does nothing more to clean his come from Hannibal's face. He stands, and puts the knife back into one of the inner pockets of his jacket.

He helps Hannibal to his feet, mindful of his sore body and fresh injuries. He takes the watch from his pocket and, with a smile, fastens it around Hannibal's wrist.

Hannibal's lips twitch, and his smile is mostly in his eyes. "It's pretty," he murmurs, idly admiring the expensive present. Will knows it's pretty. He knows he'll enjoy seeing Hannibal wear it, knowing how it got there.

He takes Hannibal by the chin, drawing his eyes until they meet, and lock again. "You're driving us home," he commands. Hannibal's eyes flash to the entrance of the alley. Will has no intention of letting him clean his face. Anyone they pass will see the mess Will made of him, the blood and the come and they will worry. They will think Will is a monster. They will show fear.

They will know they are in the presence of something monstrous and divine, and tremble with that knowledge.

Hannibal clears his throat. "Will you…?" He stops, swallows, tries again; "Will you warm my bed, tonight?"

Will smiles, and arches a brow. "No," he says, and lets the silence linger just long enough for Hannibal's mouth to twist in displeasure, his shoulders to tense, before he adds; "But you can warm mine."

Hannibal smiles, at that, and looks so relieved it makes Will's heart ache. Finally, the fire is finished burning, and settles down to rest. "Of course," he murmurs, bowing his head. Will can't help but give him one more kiss, chaste; more promise and reward for good behavior. He does, after all, have a lot of experience training animals to do as he says.

He wraps his fingers around the wristband of the watch, and leads Hannibal with it, out of the alleyway, towards the car.


End file.
